


What If...? - No. 3 - Composers can get sick, too?

by ImperfectOrphanage



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8848918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperfectOrphanage/pseuds/ImperfectOrphanage
Summary: Third in the What If...? Series where we explore ideas relating to the Game.What if Composers could get sick, too?





	

It didn’t happen often, but when it did, Joshua was a complete and total baby.

“Sanae,” he groaned from the couch, “my head hurts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the barista said. He carried a tray into the living area of the café and set it on the coffee table next to the worn couch. On the tray was a bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a couple bottles of medication. He popped the medicine bottles open and tapped out two pain relievers and a sleep aid. “Do ya want me to put it in the soup?”

Joshua moaned from under the wet towel he had on his face. “I don’t care as long as they’re in me.”

“Whatever y’say, Boss.”

Another whine and a cough, and Joshua lifted the cloth off of his face. His cheeks were flushed and his hair was stuck to his forehead. He looked horribly pale and ashen, and his eyes were clouded with pain.

Hanekoma held the pills and the glass of water out to Joshua. “Here.”

The Composer winced as he sat up. He took the medication and downed it in one long gulp of water. “Thank you. What’s in the soup? It smells a bit flowery.”

Setting the tray on his lap, Hanekoma sat down on the edge of the table. He watched as Joshua took a sip, hummed in approval, and continued to eat.

“I made it m’self. There’s noodles, chicken, carrots, and a lot of herbs. It’ll get ya back on yer feet before ya can say flu.”

Joshua coughed and sniffled. “Ugh. Don’t say that word to me.”

“Sorry, kiddo.” Hanekoma smiled, ruffled Joshua’s hair, and moved to sit near the Composer’s dainty little feet. He picked one up and began to massage it.

The outbreak had hit Shibuya like a storm. It started with small groups and ended up affecting around eight-five percent of the population. Schools had to cancel classes. Businesses were forced to close. The Game was postponed until further notice, and Joshua had been laid out on his ass.

Whenever Shibuya suffered a setback-illness, mass murder, major subway collisions-the Composer was affected as if he were one of the victims. The problems were so widespread they bled into the music and turned the peaceful melody into what could be seen as a cat banging on a keyboard.

“This soup tastes like pencil erasers.”

Hanekoma grinned. “And when have ya ever eaten a pencil eraser?”

“Shut up,” he took another sip, “you know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

Joshua glared at him with the spoon in his mouth. He sipped the soup from it and dipped it back into the bowl to chase bits of chicken. “I feel as if I’ve been run over by a truck.”

“Considerin’ yer powers, y’might’ve had one dropped on ya.”

Another glare, followed by another spoonful of soup. He continued to eat until the bowl was near empty and his eyes began to droop. By that point, both of his feet had been massaged and were tucked back under the heavy, fleece blanket.

Hanekoma took the tray and moved to the front of the café to clean up. He could hear Joshua mumbling about one thing or another and then the sound of a horn. When Joshua blew his nose it was loud and sharp, and it always made Hanekoma wince. It sounded like the kid was trying to blow his brains into a stack of tissues.

“Sanae,” he whined again, “I’m out of tissues and the trashcan is full.”

Heaving a sigh, Hanekoma grabbed another box of tissues from under the counter. He plopped them down into Joshua’s lap and took the trashcan to empty it in the large barrel in the stockroom.

“Sanae, I’m cold.”

If it hadn’t been for the fact that Joshua was the Composer, Hanekoma would have strangled him. The barista didn’t have many blankets since he didn’t need to sleep, but he had a few clean paint cloths. He took a couple and carried them into the living area.

Joshua’s eyes were leaking and his nose dripped a bit of blood. He coughed into the tissue and moaned before collapsing back onto the stack of pillows. Rolling onto his side, he stuffed the tissue up his nose and closed his eyes.

“I wouldn’t do that, Boss.”

“Do what?” He said, stuffily.

Hanekoma took the tissue and threw it in the trash. “Don’t put that up there. You’ll get a headache.”

“I already have a headache,” Joshua bemoaned, and curled around the pillow as Hanekoma placed the two paint cloths over him. “Why is it so cold in here, Sanae? Don’t you have heat?”

“It’s not cold. You’ve got a fever,” he explained, and pressed his hand to Joshua’s forehead. “Shit, kid, yer burnin’ up.”

Joshua muttered into the pillow something like, “no I’m freezing.”

“C’mon, J,” Hanekoma sat down in front of the couch and rubbed at Joshua’s temples, “just relax and go to sleep. You’ll get better eventually.”

He opened his eyes halfway and stared off into space. “Do Angels get sick?”

“Have ya ever seen me sick?” The barista trailed his fingers down to the back of Joshua’s neck.

Over the years, Hanekoma had learned how to massage pressure points and relieve the symptoms of Joshua’s headaches and illnesses. His fingers knew where to press and how hard, and Joshua almost always ended up sleeping through most of the suffering. The Composer’s skin was sticky with sweat, which was a good sign, since it meant his fever was beginning to break. Hanekoma grabbed a couple tissues and dotted them over Joshua’s forehead.

“Sanae,” Joshua whispered, his eyes slowly blinking closed. “Do you think Neku is sick?”

“It’s a guarantee all of them are,” he said, still dotting the tissue around Joshua’s face. “I’m sure they’re doin’ fine. They’ve got each other an’ they got family.”

The Composer’s eyes were closed. “Neku doesn’t have family.”

“If I promise ta check in on ‘im will y’go to sleep?”

Joshua hummed and within a few seconds began to snore. He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow where the sound of snoring became louder and more distinct.

Hanekoma smiled, tucked the blankets tighter around him, and left the kid to sleep. He left the living area and went to the front of the café where his mobile phone was on the charger. Picking it up, he dialed Neku’s phone number. When the kid answered, Hanekoma kept his voice low, “hey.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He asked about ya.”

Neku’s voice was clear. “I told him to get a shot. He’s such an asshole sometimes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Did y’wanna come over later? His fever’s about ta break and he needs the company.”

“I’ll bring some board games to keep him busy,” Neku said, his voice distant. “Sorry, Mr. H. I gotta go. I’ll come by around six.”

“Sure thing,” Hanekoma agreed and ended the call. He set his phone back down. Even in the front of the café he could hear Joshua’s deep snores and mumbles. It was kind of sweet how much he reminded Hanekoma of the boy he had been when alive.

The next couple of hours went by in semi-silence. Hanekoma had been engrossed in a crossword puzzle when again he heard the squeaky voice of his Composer.

“Sanaeeeeee…my head hurts….”

“Back to work,” he muttered under his breath. “Comin’, J!”


End file.
